Disclaimer - Marvel/Fox own them. No infringement intended. No profit being made.
***
I
*
The warning was there the moment he walked into the store, hanging from the end of a shelf on metal hooks, as if announcing that this was a bad place, this was the place where he would lose his mind.
Logan didn't notice, of course. Didn't notice at all. His mind was too focused on the meat he had developed the sudden urge for. Being forced to watch that cookery program with the landlady probably hadn't helped (and if she made him do it again, he swore she was going to end up on at least three out of six of his claws).
Moving further into the store he lifted his gaze to look at the signs and smiled with satisfaction when he saw his goal: AISLE EIGHT - 'FROZEN MEAT/POULTRY.'
Meat.
Growling almost silently he stalked to the aisle and within seconds had located a suitable meal - suitable for him meaning fresh and plain. Mere moments later he was at the till, paid for the steak, and walked towards the exit.
But something caught his eye. He was never quite sure what or how had caught his eye. The colour wasn't particularly eye-catching or pleasing; it just was.
He moved closer, blinking. Then he paused, and couldn't remember blinking again the entire time he stood there.
Some thirty minutes had passed without him even realising, when someone he tried not to pay attention to tapped his shoulder and asked if he was all right.
He didn't jump in surprise. He didn't whirl towards them. He didn't extend his claws and sink them into their fleshy, overweight body.
He simply ignored them.
When he emerged from the store - barely a minute later - both pairs of just-paid-for brown gloves were shoved securely into his jacket pocket.
The steak had been left by the till, forgotten.
*
The next day, shopping was on the menu again. He may have forgotten about the steak but his stomach certainly hadn't, and when he woke in the morning it moodily informed him that it wanted something to eat. Now.
He hated that his stomach could be moodier than he could.
He thought nothing of the gloves that were still in his jacket pockets. He just enjoyed the feel of them next to his hands.
In the store, it was all he could do not to look at where they had been hanging. Carefully keeping his eyes straight ahead he grabbed a basket and moved around the store methodically, not paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was putting in the basket (indeed, when he eventually returned to the apartment, he discovered that for breakfast he'd bought washing detergent, lipstick, and three cans of dog food).
He reached the till. He paid. He walked towards the exit.
Sliding his gaze - slowly, so slowly - towards the shelf, he stared.
The gloves had been restocked.
Grabbing all of them he returned to the till to pay. The cashier smirked as she scanned eight pairs through. "A little cold, sir?"
"They're not for me," Logan responded, not sure if that was a lie but knowing that what was coming next definitely was. "They're for the kids."
The cashier - Polly, her name badge read, next to the small image of the red smiling THING that was the company logo - chuckled, obviously disbelieving. She had no real idea why he was buying so many, but she could come up with some imaginative ideas. "Uh hu," She responded, but thankfully said nothing else.
Paying again, he then shoved all eight pairs into his jacket pockets which were now fully stuffed, brown glove fingers sticking out at every direction.
The only thing that stopped him from forgetting his groceries again was the imaginative Polly, who helpfully called him "Glove Man" to remind him that he had forgotten something.
Glaring, he grabbed the paper bag full of unknown items and stalked out of the store.
*
Three cans of dog food later, he sat in the small bedroom of his small apartment, looking at the gloves.
Ten pairs.
All brown.
All the same.
He looked at the hammer he'd purchased at the local hardware store, laying next to the collection of nails, also purchased at the hardware store.
Logan's expression was blank as he began his work.
*
II
*
It became his ritual. He told himself it was healthy, that it was normal, and for all he knew it might have been. It was good to have rituals. People like him - mutants - didn't have rituals. Didn't have routines. Not unless they were lucky and were found by the Professor, or were like him and somehow managed to find ways where they could have routines. Some sense of normalcy.
For him, that had been the cage fights. Always the same thing, not necessarily always in the same place, but always the same thing.
But not now. He hadn't been in a cage fight since he left the school. He'd found this place; had been here for a month. That was it.
Being a mutant meant that anything happening at any time happened a lot more often to him, and those like him.
The gloves gave him something to do. The gloves gave him a routine.
Healthy. Maybe a little odd to some. He'd stopped buying them at the store when the same cashiers began to frown when every time he bought something, eight pairs of gloves were always there - the last items on the conveyer belt.
A few other places sold them, but he started going out of the local area. Driving further and further out so people wouldn't ask questions, wouldn't frown, wouldn't smirk knowingly. He didn't want to explain.
It should have bothered him. He was Logan. He was the Wolverine. He didn't have to explain anything to anyone.
It didn't bother him. It just was.
*
The night after he bought the pair of red leather gloves, he dreamt of her.
*
III
*
Logan started dating. Not the 'meet her in the bar and fuck her the same night' type. Not the 'holding hands everywhere we go' type. The actual 'I'm curious about you and you're curious about me' type. Although, if he were honest, the curiousity was pretty much one-sided. Her side of course.
But it was a healthy thing to do. It was a routine.
He hadn't been inside a movie theatre in years.
Logan had been in the town for two and a half months. Becky had known him for one. She was attractive, had fair skin and black hair, and liked to think she had the monopoly on what he was thinking. She didn't of course, but it was amusing listening to her try.
They had sex, of course. Sometimes at her apartment; mostly at his.
Never in the bedroom. On the couch or on the floor. Sometimes against the wall or a door. In one memorable encounter in the stairwell outside his apartment door, half-hoping Mrs Lederman would appear to drag him in to watch another cookery show and get the shock of her life.
She didn't of course, but it made the sex so much better.
Becky wasn't allowed in his bedroom. She knew this. She'd been warned enough times - teased, taunted, joked.
He should have known that her curiousity would get the better of her, and he probably did. That's why he left her alone in his apartment while he went out to get some food.
She found them, of course. She'd gone into his bedroom and he'd known what she'd found: pair after pair of gloves nailed to the wall. All different colours, materials, textures, sizes, designs. His favourites - the red leather - nailed just above his bed.
By the time he returned she'd dragged all the pairs he hadn't had the time or space to put up out of the closet and dumped them on the bed. She shouted. Why hadn't he told her? Maybe she liked gloves. Maybe she would have shared his interest. Why hadn't he told her?
Logan didn't pay attention. He stared at the large pile of gloves sprawled across his bed and could almost - almost - see her lying there. The one who had started all this. Those dark gloves there…that was her hair. The pale one in the middle - her streak of white.
It had never occurred to him before just how many pairs he'd bought.
Becky shouted something again, then left. Loudly.
Really, what was so strange about collecting gloves?
Picking up the phone he dialled a number he didn't even know he had in his memory. She answered, thankfully. "It's me," He told her, and didn't hesitate. "I need your help." She responded immediately, knowing who he was, knowing that he never needed anyone and the fact that he needed someone now had to be bad news. He told her where he was, and where the spare key was hidden so she could let herself in. Then he hung up, not wanting to hear her platitudes.
Letting the tension out of his body he fell back, his weight cushioned by the bed and the mountain of gloves that seemed to hold his body. Picking up a single black glove he lifted it to his nose and sniffed.
She would understand. She would understand perfectly.
***
onto part two